Faithful Jewel: The Inner Thoughts Of Boromir
by FaithfulJewel
Summary: This is a piece exploring the inner thoughts and feelings of Boromir at key junctions in the story of the film (extended edition)...
1. Upon Arrival

**_Rivendell_**

**---Upon Arrival---**

My father's words echoed forcefully within my mind as I entered the sanctuary of the Elves. It was not without a sense of anxiety, wonder, and silent dread that I gazed up at the eerie beauty of Elrond's home…though the trees glowed golden with the gentle and familiar light of Autumn, I could not shed my dogged feelings of 'otherness'…

To the common folk of Middle-Earth, indeed, to many men of my Kingdom, the Elves are the subject of much reverence and wonderment. But I am not a common man- I am the son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, and I am not bereft of my father's wisdom. He has long since warned me of the trickery and illusions of Elves, and of their arrogance concerning the world of Men and our affairs. The ethereal and angelic are more seldom intertwined than most would believe; the Elves are manipulative in ways that few have the wit to see…but while I have mine about me, I will ensure that Gondor receives its due. I know not much concerning The One Ring, but I know this: if, as my father said, this trinket contains within it power enough to restore my Kingdom to its former glory, it shall be in my possession before darkness falls upon Middle Earth once more.

I can only hope I am permitted to leave this place as swiftly as I came- it haunts me like no other…a fear of this unknown haven, and of what might take place here, has cast shadows upon my soul…I fear I shall have no peace until the wretched shelter of the Elves is behind me...


	2. The Shards of Narsil

**---The Shards of Narsil---**

My fear soon gave way to curiosity, as the day gave way to night…Rivendell was indeed a labyrinth. Puzzling, vast…and full of treasures, namely those of art and ancient wisdom; treasures waiting to be unlocked, and explored...

The serene song of birds at twilight led me to a great passage filled with statues of marble, a fine example of Elvish craftsmanship- their artistic skills at least, I had come to admire in my brief time spent traversing their halls. But the great statues, their beauty even more apparent when bathed in the light of the fair moon, did not hold my attentions as long as the great painting which now captured my gaze…I stared in wonder. A tribute to Isildur?

I did not expect to see a glorification of Man in the house of an Elf. But lo! There it was…as I examined Isildur's painted features, I began to contemplate his regrettable fate. What great and terrible power could turn hero to coward, knight to knave? The saviour of Middle Earth fell to ruin…but I knew this was not due to the weakness of Men, but a result of the inner cowardice of Isildur himself…his power, placed in righteous hands, could not be used for wicked deeds. A stronger man would not be led astray…

At this thought, I became aware of another presence, which the weight of my thoughts had blinded me to. I snapped around swiftly, and much to my surprise and delight, I saw a Man- not an Elf. I was indeed glad to see a kinsman, the strange androgyny and unearthly nature of the Elvish men had unnerved me for an eternity, it seemed.

The man sat casually, with a worn looking volume nestled in his ring-encrusted hand. He was rugged, with unkempt hair the colour of new chestnuts, and a beard that rivalled my own. I would have thought him dishevelled, had his clothes not been of finer quality. He looked almost…**at home** in this place…his posture and demeanour suggested he was well acquainted with this residence of Elves. But how could that be?

Curious as to his origins, I questioned him, and discovered that he had arrived with Gandalf the Grey. I had suspected that none of the race of Men had business here save myself…if he was not an ambassador for our people, then what was his role? It mattered not: if he had been summoned, our purpose was one and the same…I exclaimed as much, and perhaps in haste, I called him 'Friend'. I may as well have deemed him a loathsome dog, for the icy silence I received in return. Much puzzled, and somewhat insulted, I directed my gaze elsewhere in hope of another distraction- one that would relieve me of the need to converse with so indifferent a stranger.

I found one quicker than expected…no sooner had my eyes shifted from the man's cold features, they rested upon an object altogether more delightful and wondrous to behold: the shards of Narsil, the instrument of Isildur- a weapon undeniably intertwined with his victory over the Dark Lord. It seemed as old as time itself, but there it lay: glistening as it rested upon a cloth of silk, in the hands of a figure carved in the spirit of solemnity. Without hesitation, I took the hilt- just **holding** it inspired feelings of greatness within my heart. I felt a deep thrill of excitement run through me, as I marvelled at its form. Even in pieces, it was still a magnificent weapon; truly worthy of its legacy.

Careless in my euphoria, I ran my fingers across its silken blade and drew blood. Remarkable…could it be, that after many a Great Age had passed, the sword was still fit to slay? The sword could still be wielded, if its fragments merged once more? As I wondered in silence, I felt a sharp and sickening sensation rush through me; as though the spectre of Isildur himself had whispered his scorn at my folly. As I turned my head slowly, I felt the scorn of another: the man I called friend gazed at me so intensely that it left me fearful. Was he truly a man? Or was he an Elvish fiend, merely donning the guise of my kin? Surely no man could possess a gaze so sharp, so penetrating…I felt as though he perceived my thoughts, nay, the very stirrings of my heart…

Suddenly, I wanted to flee: but my pride saved me from humiliation. I muttered some falsehood about my contempt for the blade, and purposefully replaced it in so careless a manner that it clattered shrilly to the ground, echoing my sentiments. As I walked towards the doorway that would lead me out of the accursed room, now drowned in discomfort and great tension, I turned my head once more towards the unsettling creature. I was a fool to think I could find solace in these lonely and wretched halls…I was a fool to think I could find one truly of my kin, in a place so foreign and dreary…this stranger was no Man. I retired that night with his piercing gaze imprinted upon my mind, and as I lay restlessly, longing for sleep, I could not help but wonder who or what he truly was…


	3. The Council of Elrond

**---The Council of Elrond---**

As I sat, patiently waiting for Elrond's address, I could not help but simmer angrily: I felt anger at how I had been treated by that roguish-looking fool, so unworthy of my company- but I felt more anger towards myself, for my foolish heart. How ludicrous my response to a petty attempt at intimidation! He was nothing to be feared, I scoffed silently…he was not even worth my attentions. I decided my unlikely fear was no doubt a result of feeling much misplaced and ill at ease; an unfortunate effect of staying amongst Elves within their haunted chambers…truly wretched these creatures were indeed, to cast shadows of fear and doubt upon so brave and proud a spirit as mine! This man (for I decided he was no more than such) was no better than one of them- nay, he was worse, for although his nature was truly more akin to those of Elves than of a noble man of Gondor, he possessed no more power for it. In a duel he would doubtless crumple beneath the skill and strength of my swordsmanship, of that I was certain…

But as one fear faded, another had emerged. As predicted, I had found no rest the previous night; only horror. The images of my strange dream lingered within the dark corners of my mind, faded now…but ever-present. A gloom shrouded me that morning- the taint of a prophetic, but menacing vision. My recollection failed me, but the remaining shards of the broken picture sent tremors through my heart. A darkness, bleak as death, enormous as night, had gripped me in sleep…a feeling of absolute hopelessness, of complete despair, had engulfed me and all the world around me…but I felt it had not yet taken a hold so complete as to smother myself and all of Middle-Earth into oblivion. Indeed, I recall a voice of hope…or was it of warning? It came from the West, from the Undying Lands…the final home of the Elves. It cried of a great doom…it cried of the bane of Isildur. The poison of a King…could it be The One Ring?

Could I trust the ramblings of a troubled mind? I considered myself to be a man of intelligence, a learned man of sound judgement- but the previous night had filled me with dread, and my vision seemed to be nothing more than an echo of this momentary unsteadiness. But what if these were not idle thoughts, but Omens; as unfailing and true an aid as the Horn of Gondor? My father, Lord Denethor, has long possessed the gift of foresight…if I had inherited such a gift, it would be foolish not to take heed of so dark and vivid a portent...

But it was my father who sent me here, my father who instructed me as to the nature of the so-called Bane of Isildur…my father who told me of its power, and what it could do for our people, our Kingdom! I would be a fool to seek counsel in a mere dream of my own making, turning from the advice of a wiser man. My father has a heart that is stern and impulsive…unjust, on occasion: but ignorant, he is not.

These thoughts consumed me, until words left Elrond's lips. I listened incredulously as he spoke of unity, our only hope for salvation…a notion more a curse than a gift, in the eyes of Gondor and my Lord Denethor. Unity is a façade, an impostor- there could be no union, only greed and manipulation in the guise of fellowship…if the pacts of comradeship **within** the world of men lay broken, what hope was there for reconciliation with outsiders? Rohan and Gondor had long been at odds; what chance was there of an alliance between Men and Wizards, Dwarves and Elves, and…I paused at this musing. There was one amongst us whose like I could not discern…he was most…unusual. At first glance, he appeared a child of Men, but his eyes burned with a melancholy and hurt so deep, youth seemed but a distant dream- his weary spirit was evident to all; his cherub-like appearance…no more than a shell. I wondered what secrets lay behind his grieving gaze…

As if in answer to my thoughts, the little one rose from his seat, at Elrond's command. And lo! On a platform of stone, raised in the centre of our circle, this fragile creature placed before us our common purpose…The One Ring! Prior to this sighting, I had not truly known what to believe or expect…a corner of my heart had doubted that Elrond, or any Elf for that matter, could possess such a mighty weapon. Even if Elrond had come to know of its location, I had not suspected it would be revealed, for all to see...almost **pulsing** with life before me.

As the young one took his seat, I noticed a sigh escape his lips…as though he had relieved himself of a great burden. I did not trouble myself with his sorrowful features for much longer, however: my gaze once more fell upon The One Ring. Reminding myself of my duty, and true purpose in this place, I knew there was need for haste. Elves, Dwarves, Wizards and Men alike…each and every council member sat rigid; transfixed. A dispute would soon arise…the Council must be convinced of Gondor's need before all others, if stewardship of the Ring of Power was to fall to its rightful owners!

My dream…if these ambassadors were to hear of it, they would understand the true nature of the weapon of Sauron…they would understand its treachery, they would believe that in order to resist its lure, a Ring Bearer of true strength would be required…a Ring Bearer of Gondor. Only then could its power be tamed, only then could the doom that would surely befall us all be reversed!

Without hesitation, I rose from my seat. As I spoke, I gazed upon The One Ring. How perfect it was, how exquisitely beautiful…and yet, what deep and terrible power it radiated! Its aura left the air thick; with a force I cannot discern or describe in mere words…it encompassed all, enmeshed us within its formless web… Isildur's bane indeed; but my birthright, my **elixir**! An elixir for all my Kingdom! Without thought or deliberation, my fingers stretched out, longing to touch so great and tremendous a force…

At this, Elrond's once-silken voice turned to thunder, sharply uttering my name. I averted my gaze and withdrew my hand, but at this, the sky boomed with the force of a great storm, and darkened into pitch…I stared up in terror; this scene was not unfamiliar! The shadows of my dream had taken on a bold and terrible life…the sky looked as though it would fall, and a great voice fell from the misshapen clouds. My innards twisted in fear: was this a punishment for my greed? Was the dream a warning, a sign that Gondor must relinquish The One Ring to lesser forces? Had I been so utterly wrong and foolish in my assumptions? Or was this…a demonstration, a sign of its true power? Yes…I felt it calling to me. I was the chosen one! The darkening of the sky, the voice in the air…it had come to pass because I had dreamt it!

But although my convictions were fuelled by my terror, they were undermined by the very same force…that voice, it was wrong, somehow…twisted…evil…ruthless. I felt it penetrate every inch of my being, every corner…poisoning me. But I had not time to contemplate its nature- it left as soon as it came, driven away by the forceful uttering of the Mithrandir, Gandalf the Grey. The blackness left us, and we were bathed in the light of the sun once more. I realised the tongue was that of Mordor, as Elrond reprimanded the white-haired wizard for using such a language in the midst of Rivendell. Struggling to regain my composure, I glanced wildly around the circle…each and every man was shaken; undoubtedly perturbed from having been smothered by the black speech…but I would not be cowed by mere words. My fear left me, and my confidence took hold once more: I once again rose from my seat, and spoke my mind to the Council…

It was a gift, I was sure of it! Why waste such precious power? What better to protect us than the armour of the Enemy himself? And who better to don such a defence, than the armies of Gondor? Although I did not reveal the true depths of my bitterness to the Council, it ran deep indeed…like a scar of battle, invulnerable to herbs and medicines...my bitterness was at having been forsaken, at having been used as fodder for the foul things of Mordor! My Father's weary figure once more entered my mind: his words became mine, and I demanded justice, for him, and for my people. We would be the ones to battle the great foe; we would achieve all that Isildur had, and far surpass him…for whom else could undertake such a task? The Dwarves were nothing but stunted, treasure-hungry Miners, too busy hoarding their trinkets and jewels to concern themselves with the affairs of the world…the Elves were tricksters, and masters of manipulation...how could they possibly be trusted with the last remaining hope for Middle-Earth? And Wizards! They were worse…cowards that hid behind their books, hidden within their libraries…we were nothing but pawns to them, tools to be used to achieve their own ends! They told us nothing of their plans, their shrouded conspiracies…deceptive riddlers. Only the Lords of Gondor possessed the nobility, and the skill, to wield The One Ring and crush the might of Sauron once more!

As I spoke of my great plans, I was most suddenly interrupted- by none other than the cursed vagabond that haunted the halls I had so unsuspectingly visited, under the light of yesterday's moon! How dare he…he had not nerve to respond to my words of hospitality, and yet he had courage enough to cut through my visions, before all the Council! While Nobles and Kings stayed silent, **he** had the audacity to breathe words against me, spouting claims that I could not harness such power…another attempt to humiliate me! He would not achieve this a second time; by the strength of Minas Tirith…

I looked upon him with as much disdain as I could muster, and sharply questioned his authority on the matter. Who was this pedantic underling, this servant of Gandalf, to question Boromir, son of Denethor? As I sneered, I was interrupted once more- this time, by an indignant Elf of Mirkwood- his face, ordinarily as pale as the sky on a Winter's morn, glowed fiercely with a pomposity only an Elf could emanate. Although his interjection was enough to earn my indifference concerning his speech, I found myself unable to ignore what he spoke of. His swift rebuttal sent shock rushing through my body, as though a great sword had skewered me and been pulled from my gut, in one swift and lethal motion.

Aragorn…son of Arathorn? How could it be? This scruff, this ignoble cretin…**the heir of Isildur**? Surely this was falsehood; when the line of the Kings of Numenor ended many an Age ago! How can it be that my Father, courageous and noble, could be legitimately usurped by this worthless creature? No…I would not show him my fear, my hate: he would see nothing but contempt, for contempt was what he deserved! I turned my gaze from the Mirkwood sentinel, to Isildur's unbecoming heir. I contorted my features; my visage mocking him in its every contour: I swiftly voiced my incredulity at such an outlandish claim, though I felt my eyes more eloquent than my tongue!

I would have considered my vengeance complete, had it not been for the Mirkwood snake. The words that escaped his lips…it was as though he had read my darkest fears, and sung them out melodiously for all to hear. The so-called heir sough to calm the foul Elf, in his equally loathsome language, while I burned with a silent rage; a rage that threatened to fracture my composure…Heir of Isildur he may be, Elf, but Heir of Gondor he was **not**! I turned slowly to address the Elf, and scathingly reminded him that the Monarchy of Gondor was no more…the Stewards held sovereignty, and the fool would do well to remember it!

I then turned my attention to the son of Arathorn…his eyes bore into me as deeply as they did before dawn. Only now, I returned the glare: my eyes teemed with all the strength and dignity that coursed through my veins; truly his pride was no match for mine! I spoke my mind; Gondor was indifferent to him and his services…for what service could he bring? Truly my mighty city was in no need of a so-called heir that had long forgotten it, an heir that had never marvelled at its majesty, shed tears on its behalf! An heir that had not journeyed from boy to man within its walls, an heir that did not see it as home…did not feel it in his heart! The heir of Isildur lived for himself; but my every breath was for Gondor and its people…I felt as though my very bones were carved of the same stone that gave birth to my glorious city. No noble blood of his could steal that away from me…

He stared stubbornly…he had no words, it seemed. I returned to my seat, still wrapped within fury, and met his eyes once more. He lowered his gaze, and I smiled triumphantly: he had seen the power of Gondor's first born, and he had relinquished his own. He had no hold over me now, and if all the Ages of Middle Earth were to elapse in our lifetimes, he would be no closer to seeing me bow.

The Mithrandir spoke once more; supporting the cowardice of Aragorn- as expected of a Wizard. It was then that Elrond made his decision; or rather, revealed what he had calculatingly harboured throughout the course of the gathering: he ordered the destruction of The One Ring, so dooming us to failure.

My disappointment and disgust was self-evident; my suspicions confirmed…the so-called wisdom of the Elves was no more than a farce. But why was I alone; solitary in my perceptions? Why did none have the courage to oppose this ruling? As I pondered bitterly, the oafish Dwarf ran wildly, axe in hand- eager to display his strength in destroying the Ring of Power! I rose swiftly, startled by his haste, just as the air sung shrill the chord of clashing steel, accompanied by the fool of a Dwarf clattering heavily to the ground. Foul whispers dominated the wind once more, and I sensed that the little one Elrond had called forth; the one who answered to the name of Frodo…he felt the dark presence more keenly than most. His eyes told all; much burden and dread lay buried within- wide and unfocused they seemed, oblivious to all but The One Ring…

My observations were interrupted once more, as Elrond addressed us with the sincerity that had thus far been absent: his true intention we now heard, as he revealed the one and only key to the destruction of Sauron's great tool- the dark fires of Mount Doom; a cursed cavern that lay within the very heart of Mordor… It was then I wholly understood Elrond's designs: one among us was to be made a lamb, an object of sacrifice- thrown to the Orcs and Goblins, and all the filth of Sauron's black land. One of us must suffer, one must serve as Elrond's martyr, as the elves of Rivendell would not undertake such a perilous task- no, not a second time…The youth of this Age must suffer for the mistakes of the last! The quest would fail, as surely and swiftly as the coming of night, and for the death of one we all would perish!

Such madness could not remain shrouded by silence: it seemed Elrond had so easily forgotten the limitless adversity that lay ahead…my youthful eyes had not yet captured glimpses of Mordor for themselves, but the tales I had heard and read, often from the lips of my Father, were warning enough for one of sound mind! I spoke of what I knew to the Elvish Lord: surely now, he would heed my words? How could he ask a single man to **complete **such an ill-fated quest, when thousands had not hope of **attempting** it? I did not take care to disguise my incredulity: a blunt manner was needed to dispel the ignorance that permeated this Council! My voice strained, I spoke of matters I knew would kindle fear and much horror into the hearts of those present; perhaps then they would wake from their foolish stupor…

But lo! My tongue had barely time to impart its final words of counsel, before the miscreant of Mirkwood arose once more! He belittled me for my supposed insolence- I turned away, repulsed. I would not dignify his petty lecturing with a response…the Dwarf, however, seemed to delight in an opportunity to challenge the self-righteousness of the Elf! Seeing that I had at last gained an ally in my loathing of this arrogance, I sprung from my seat and questioned the Elf who thought he knew much: how would he fare against the wrath of Sauron, when the quest proved futile? What Elvish rhetoric would save them from the devastation he would undoubtedly cause, with The One Ring in his grasp once more? The Dwarf swiftly uttered what he had been longing to: while he still drew breath, the Elves would not possess the power of Sauron's gold!

It had started: The conflict I sensed had been growing like a weed amongst roses since the Council began. But this was no ordinary quarrel…amidst my own shouts and jeers, I felt a presence that yet lingered: each and every Council member seemed fuelled by an unearthly rage, not born of their own making… It drank; quenching its thirst through our strife and disharmony. I began to feel drained, sapped of life; as though my very soul was being coaxed from my body by some sinister, unseen hand…and yet, paradoxically, how powerful I felt! My voice seemed to boom like the thundering hooves of the Mearas, above and over all who defied me! The eyes of all glittered with marked malice, and it seemed as though this strange tempest of anger and rebellion was beyond our power to tame…

And yet, it was the smallest of all among us who quelled this violent storm. Frodo...his visage, a tapestry of woe, it seemed. The most fragile of the Council would bear the heaviest burden, surely one that would shatter his delicate heart- and faltering mind. His vow to carry The One Ring was laced with pain that each of us sensed, and though I disapproved of the task, my heart could not help but be moved by pity- a curious admiration also, as courage of his like was as rare and precious as mythril.

His bravery moved many; one by one, they pledged their aid…first the Wizard, his ever-vigilant watchman it seemed…then, the ranger Aragorn, so eager to prove himself worthy of Kingship…the insolent Elf was next, and finally, the dullard of a Dwarf. It seemed as though all hope of utilising the great power of the Ring was lost; the Council has spoken…it must be destroyed. Disappointment stirred within me, but also a sense of duty: I promised my Father that I would ensure the will of Gondor would prevail, but this fate had not been mine. But I could yet carve another…all was not yet set in stone, and our journey had not yet commenced. The sheer weight of the task would defeat them, and it was then they would heed the words of Boromir, Captain of Gondor!

Even if this did not come to pass, I had yet a lesser victory to pursue…

Aragorn had proved a poisonous wretch since first he laid eyes upon me, and I would not rest until the truth was written upon his heart: he was heir to a ghost, a phantom! Gondor was no graveyard, nor would it be haunted by the unwanted spectres of the past! I audibly pledged my services, but the silent promises of my heart remained unsaid…


End file.
